First, thanks for the kind response to the Chorchazade post yesterday, whether by e-mail or comments or reposting the album at other websites. I’m glad I could make so many people’s day. I’ll try to put up the Death Is Eeklo album if I have a spare moment this weekend. Time is short, though. I am a busy, busy man.
How incredible was LOST last night? I’m such a sucker for anything they do on that show. I thought last night was going to be devoted to the dude highlighted on the Find 815 website (yes, I’m a nerd and I’ve gone through the entire website), but apparently it was about four different people on the freighter. I wonder if they’re going to tie that into the show somehow? What about the thirteen mini-episodes they had on ABC’s website? Are they going to allude to those at all? What about the one that takes place before the pilot episode begins, where Jack’s father tells the dog Vincent, “Go wake my son, he has work to do.” Are they going to address that or what!? HOLY SHIT!!! LOST!!!
Now for the important news. According to the Los Angeles Weekly, it’s now illegal to sell bacon-wrapped hot dogs in this city. The very food that we cooked this weekend for our super bowl party is apparently known punishable my imprisonment. No joke. The story follows a female street vender who served time in a women’s county jail for grilling sweet, succulent, bacon-wrapped hot dogs. In case you are unfamiliar with the culinary innovation, the article states, “Not quite Mexican and not quite American, the bacon-wrapped hot dog, like the city that so fervently embraces it, has a curious romance about it. You can smell one from blocks away. The grilled bacon, twisted around a wiener, is topped with grilled onions and a mountaintop of diced tomatoes, ketchup, mustard and mayonnaise. Then one whole grilled green poblano chile is plopped impossibly on top. You take a bite and think, ‘This is so good, no wonder it’s illegal!’“
I don’t know about you, but I am outraged about this. An LAPD officer states, “”I’ve seen cockroaches just pour out of the bottom [of grills],” he says. “I’ve seen meat sitting out in the sun for hours. We’ve seen hot-dog carts where the owner has a little bottle where he urinates, because he doesn’t want to leave his cart. And he stores the bottle alongside his food.”
Okay, I guess that makes sense from a Health Department perspective. I wouldn’t want to eat a bacon-wrapped hot dog either if there were roaches nesting in the grill, or rotten meat getting cooked, or dirty hands touching food. But making a case out of the unhealthiness of a bacon-wrapped hot dog is wrong. We live in the land of the free, and if I want to shorten my life expectancy by devouring something deliciously unhealthy, I think that’s well within my rights. I don’t need to be told by local law enforcement or Health Department works what I can or cannot put into my body. Fuck that. I have the worst eating habits in the world and I’m relatively fit and trim. In fact I think I’m still considered underweight. And I love bacon-wrapped hot dogs. I love making them, I love feeding them to friends, and I love the idea of eating them all the time. I don’t think that’s a jail-worthy offense, and I don’t think it should be illegal when enterprising Mexicans set up their carts next to local bars and grill up some bacon-wrapped hot dogs. In fact, I applaud them for it. They’re doing their part to make a living, and they’re providing me and my friends with tasty drunken snacks. Fuck the police. I want my god damned bacon-wrapped hot dogs!
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